


constellations

by prinsipe



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospitals, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3637152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prinsipe/pseuds/prinsipe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tetsuya wonders if the glass of his bones can hold all the stars in his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	constellations

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: seijuurouakashi  
> twitter: akanijis  
> main ao3: seijuro
> 
> (could you guess who my favourite character is) any and all feedback would seriously be highly appreciated!! ;u; you have no idea how much feedback means honestly. i'm still trying to figure out how to characterize akashi and kuroko so there's that.

Tetsuya sees him at the other end of the hallway, all wrapped up in his wheelchair like he’s some sort of gift. In a way, Tetsuya decides that’s inaccurate - he really  _only_  notices the boy for bringing a lot of noise into an empty space. From where Tetsuya stands, the hallway is impossibly vast. The windowed walls bear only night through their glass, and scattered, bland paintings like coral reefs in the middle of an ocean.

Tetsuya wonders if this is what it’s like to drown.

Someone else stands beside the boy, and although Tetsuya can’t see their face, he doesn’t need to.

“I want to go outside,” says the boy in the wheelchair. His voice has a sharp edge to it, but even Tetsuya, who’s scarcely known the boy for less than a few minutes, knows that it used to be sharper. “Take me outside.”

“You can’t,” the man beside the boy says. A white hospital coat falls over the front of his body, and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose in an attempt to calm his rising blood pressure. “It’ll be dangerous, and I have to tend to the other patients. You need to sleep.”

Tetsuya’s grip tightens around the crutches and he hobbles over to them, clearing his throat.

“You’re mistaken,” the boy tells the doctor. Tetsuya feels the corners of his mouth curling. “I rested earlier. I’m not tired at all. I just want to go outside.”

The doctor gives Tetsuya a look that screams  _help me before I strangle him. Or me. Or the both of us._

Tetsuya speaks before he can stop himself. “I’ll take him outside.”

.

.

They stand just outside Tetsuya’s hospital room, and Tetsuya sits in the chair on the balcony as the boy wheels towards its edge. He hasn’t looked at Tetsuya, not once. There’s only one way his eyes are going, and it’s  _up-up-_ up. Above him is a swell of black stitched with bits of gold, and the most lucent part of the constellations reflect in his eyes.

(They’re just as bright.)

He makes Tetsuya think of a mirror, of glass - the bandages around both of his legs are like the ivory handle of a fancy mirror, and the pale hands on the handles of his wheelchair are more glass-like than they should be. Tetsuya wonders if the glass of his bones can hold all the stars in his eyes.

“It’s like an ocean,” the boy says. His voice still has all the sharp parts, and for the first time, he turns away to look Tetsuya in the eye. It’s unnerving (of  _course_  it is, Tetsuya reminds himself), the directness of it all.

Tetsuya puts his crutches down. “It is?”

“It is,” the boy says without missing a beat. Lifting his hand, he waves to the spotted gold, tracing its tails with the tip of his finger. “An ocean of constellations.”

(Tetsuya can tell he’s looking at stars he can’t see.)

“Of course,” Tetsuya says, and thinks:  _incredible._

(Tetsuya can see he looks kind of wistful, too.)

.

.

The boy has a name, and it is Akashi Seijuurou. Even the words sound rich, and it makes Tetsuya want to laugh. They’re the same age, both too young to be in hospital and too old to pretend it’s alright. Tetsuya thinks it’s like they’re in some sort of tandem, a gray area, not quite black and not quite white.

( _not quite dark and not quite bright_ )

He’s gotten used to it - the medication, the gowns, the crutches, the leg he can’t feel as anything but dead weight. It’s better when he accepts he’s probably going to spend the rest of his life in a hospital, but only a little better than the prospect of spending the rest of his life in a coffin.

( _It wouldn’t really be a life, then_ , Tetsuya thinks, and reconsiders his choices.)

Seijuurou is the only other patient in the hospital within ten years of Tetsuya’s age, and the doctor lets them spend the day together. Seijuurou draws into the wrinkles of Tetsuya’s blanket with his fingers.

“What are you drawing?” Tetsuya asks, squinting. The wrinkles tell him nothing.

“A dance,” Seijuurou says, and stops drawing.

.

.

Days are spent in beds, and nights are spent out of them. The hallways seem a little shorter when he’s roaming them alongside Seijuurou, and it takes quite a bit of work to keep up with the wheelchair. Seijuurou stops in front of one of the windows. Tetsuya half expects him to touch the glass or try to go through it, but he does nothing of the sort.

It isn’t late enough for the sky to be awash with black and for now it’s  _grey_ , like Tetsuya, like Seijuurou, like the glass case they live in. Tetsuya can still see bits of stars in its arms.

Seijuurou’s skin is so pale and taut that Tetsuya can see the veins beneath its surface. His skin has no traces of scars, or bruises, or any discolorations, actually - only the blue veins running up and down his body like constellations of their own.

Seijuurou begins to hum. He’s got a sweet voice.

“What are you humming?” Tetsuya begins to ask, and answers his own question: “Right. A dance.”

“Not just  _any_  dance,” Seijuurou says. He doesn’t elaborate.

.

.

After they’ve fallen into an easy rhythm (a dance, a song) and Sejiuurou doesn’t show up at his room, Tetsuya picks up his crutches and hobbles into his. The door’s shut with the intention of staying that way, and Tetsuya shoves his shoulder against it until it opens.

Both the doctor and Seijuurou turn to look at Tetsuya.

“I’m going to walk,” Seijuurou says, and Tetsuya can’t tell if it’s for him or the doctor. He looks at the doctor like he’s challenging him, but all Tetsuya sees is pity. The aftertaste of breakfast stays in his mouth, and it’s sour.

“I would advise against that,” the doctor says, and it’s no mistake that his eyes flicker to the wheelchair in the corner of the room. Tetsuya feels another pang of sourness, and it isn’t in his mouth.

“ _I’m going to walk_ ,” Seijuurou says again. The scariest thing, Tetsuya thinks, is that he doesn’t yell. He’s calm.

(In his experience, Tetsuya has seen that two types of people tend to be calm: a) people who accept things, and b) people who deny them.)

The sharpness of his voice picks its edges up again when the doctor tries to protest and Seijuurou only says, “I will walk. Move aside, please. I wouldn’t want to walk into you.”

Tetsuya only stays in the doorway, useless and numb.

Seijuurou pulls the rest of his body over the edge of his bed with his arms, the effort making his veins strain. Tetsuya has no doubt that somewhere, sometime, he was built with muscle instead of glass, but there’s no sign of it now.

He’s tall enough that his feet can brush the floor, and Seijuurou looks down. It reminds Tetsuya of a child at the beach testing the waters for the first time. He can almost taste salt.

Seijuurou closes his eyes, and Tetsuya can tell he’s gritting his teeth. He pushes himself off the edge of the bed.

The doctor catches him before he hits the ground. “I don’t--”

“I’m going to walk,” Seijuurou says again, but this time, it’s a promise of something different. Tetsuya can’t see his face, and knows it’s for the better. “Just give it another day. I was tired today, that’s all.”

The doctor smiles and it makes Tetsuya sick.

.

.

“It’s okay,” Tetsuya says,  _again,_ before he can stop himself. It’s unlike him to lose control over his words, but it seems to be happening more and more. Seijuurou doesn’t look away from the window. “Glass isn’t strong enough to carry stars, anyway.”

.

.

Tetsuya tries to think of the last time he held a paintbrush instead of a crutch, and isn’t surprised when he cannot.

.

.

They’re on the balcony again when Seijuurou points to one of the constellations and traces its breath with his finger, his eyes. He has a fluidity to the way he moves, the kind of rose-thorn grace Tetsuya knows he won’t be able to capture in all the shades the world has to offer.

(He tries anyway.)

“That one is Eridanus,” Seijuurou says, tugging on Tetsuya’s arm. His hands are warm. “Do you see it?”

Tetsuya sees it shapes in white-gold, and nods. “Do you know any others?” Tetsuya says. The spaces between make pictures of their own, and when Tetsuya blinks, they fade.

“No,” Seijuurou says. “I only know that one.”

“Oh,” Tetsuya says. There isn’t anything remarkable about the constellation at all - its outline is jagged in all the ways it isn’t, and Tetsuya struggles to make sure it keeps it shape in the first place.

“I’m a dancer, you know,” Seijuurou says, and it makes awful  _sense_ : the song, the dance (the walk the wheelchair the promise).

“I could kind of tell,” Tetsuya admits. “I’m a painter.” Something isn’t quite right. “Or I used to be.”

Seijuurou looks at him, and Tetsuya can’t tell what he’s thinking. “Why don’t you paint anymore?”

Tetsuya shrugs, tries again to feel the familiarity of a brush in his hands, and can’t. There is a disconnect more vast than the ocean above them, and Tetsuya won’t be able to show it in colours or words. “I dun--”

“--You can still paint, can’t you?” Seijuurou says, whipping around to look Seijuurou in the eye. The hands on the handles of his wheelchair are whitewhite _white_ and they’re shaking, too. The white spreads to his face. “Can’t you?”

.

.

Seijuurou stops visiting Tetsuya’s room, and proposes Tetsuya visit his instead. Tetsuya agrees. When he asks why, Seijuurou only shakes his head and folds his hands in his lap. “I would prefer to look at the stars from here. They’re brighter.”

Tetsuya watches him come alive with sun gold, and is inclined to agree once more.

.

.

He won’t realize the lie until much later.

.

.

Seijuurou is pretty in the same way fire is, Tetsuya notices. The next time he visits, he brings the canvas, brush, and paint he can get his hands on. It isn’t the same, won’t ever be the same, but it’s a step, and it’s the only one Tetsuya can take for now.

His hair is soft flame around his face, bangs just barely brushing his eyebrows.  He doesn’t look soft, not in the slightest, but there’s still something about him that would make Tetsuya press his fingers to the live candle and flap his moth-wings until they burned him right up.

Seijuurou has his eyes closed when Tetsuya says, “I’m going to paint again.”

He opens one eye. “If it’s only because of what I told you the other day, don’t bother.”

Tetsuya takes out a pencil. “It isn’t.”

.

.

The morning afterwards, the doctor comes into Tetsuya’s room, closes the door, and tells Tetsuya not to visit Seijuurou that day. He says he’s busy (b-u-s-y, Tetsuya tastes it), and leaves, and closes the door again.

Tetsuya sits in his room and paints.

.

.

Seijuurou sleeps a lot, Tetsuya notices. They’re almost on opposite sides of the spectrum, so Tetsuya has no idea what it’s like, but he wonders if it’s tiring to burn so damn bright every day.

“What did you paint?” Seijuurou asks when he wakes, voice sleep-rough.

Tetsuya shows him the canvas. It isn’t his best work, not by far, but it’s something, and it’s infinities more than what Tetsuya was(n’t) painting in the hospital months before.

“It’s you,” Tetsuya says.

Seijuurou looks at it and runs his fingers over its backbone before wrenching away. Tetsuya watches his chest rise and fall beneath the hospital gown.

“Throw it out,” Seijuurou says.

Tetsuya stands up, ignoring the ache in his chest. “I painted it for you--”

“ _Throw it out_ ,” Seijuurou says again.

The disconnect and the anger inside him threaten to burst, and Tetsuya struggles to keep his voice level. “At least give me a reason.”

“No. Get rid of it.”

Tetsuya leaves without another word, or an agreement.

.

.

It sits in the corner of his room, treacherous: the painting of a boy dancing.

.

.

Tetsuya visits him the next day anyway. He expects things to be awkward, stiff, and kind of wants them to be, but they aren’t. It feels like a slap to the face.

Seijuurou only looks at him and smiles and nods his head like always. It’s an acknowledgement, it’s  _always_  an acknowledgement. “H--”

“Why didn’t you like it?” Tetsuya says, unable to ignore it any longer. His hands dig crescents into the flesh of his palm. “You wanted me to paint, didn’t you? It was for you.”

“Not…” For once, Seijuurou stumbles over his words. “Not that.”

Maybe later, Tetsuya will feel guilt, but it isn’t now. “And why not? You told me to throw my hard work out!” He stands up from the chair so harshly it skids a little on the floor, and he grips at the crutches to avoid crashing.

Seijuurou twists his hands together, but doesn’t lie. “I don’t know.”

.

.

Tetsuya paints him constellations instead. “I did your favourite one,” Tetsuya says, brushing dust of the canvas. “Eridanus.”

Seijuurou smiles, but doesn’t open his eyes. “It’s beautiful.”

In a few moments, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest speak for itself, and Tetsuya supposes it’s a dance of its own.

.

.

The doctor won’t look at either Seijuurou or Tetsuya, anymore.

Tetsuya is looking at the stars by himself (Seijuurou is asleep) when the doctor approaches him. “Don’t take him outside anymore.”

“Why not?” Tetsuya says, even though the reason doesn’t matter.

The doctor gives him that piteous smile that makes Tetsuya want to hit him again, and again, and  _again._

.

.

The weeks that follow in Seijuurou’s room aren’t so bad, Tetsuya thinks. He’s gotten back to painting, or at least a ghost of what it used to be, and he lets Seijuurou look at the stars that way.  

( _Is it enough?_ Tetsuya doesn’t know, doesn’t  _ask_ , and Seijuurou doesn’t answer.)

During the brief time that Seijuurou has his eyes open, Tetsuya can see they look filmy and opaque.

( _clouded glass_ )

Seijuurou sits through several weeks of being in his room and the hallway before getting antsy. “Take me outside.”

“I can’t,” Tetsuya says. “Doctor’s orders.”

Seijuurou struggles to sit up in bed, keeping his eyes closed. The blanket’s thrown over his shoulders. “ _Please_ ,” Seijuurou says, and Tetsuya hesitates.

.

.

Once they’re outside, Seijuurou cuts right to the chase: “I actually liked it a lot. Your painting.” He chews on his bottom lip, unable to tear his gaze away from the stars above him. Tetsuya thinks they’re much brighter than usual, and it shows in Seijuurou, too. “Of me. For me.”

“Thank you,” Tetsuya says.

Seijuurou points out another constellation. “That one is the Kraken. See the arms?”

“Really?”

“No,” Seijuurou admits. “I just made that one up.”

Tetsuya hates himself for laughing, and hates Seijuurou even more for making him.

Seijuurou is nearly asleep in his wheelchair when he says, “Do you think I’ll dance again?”

This time, Tetsuya doesn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

Seijuurou falls completely asleep before answering, and Tetsuya doesn’t get the chance to hear what his actual answer is, but he’s certain it’ll be something like a laugh.

The doctor wheels Seijuurou in.

.

.

There are no stars the day Seijuurou dies.


End file.
